“I missed you too.”
He held up the bag. “I stopped by Landermans and bought a few things for the shelter.”
I placed my hands on both sides of his five o’clock shadowed cheeks. “You are a good man.”
“Not as good as you. My dad said you dropped by his office today.”
My hands fell to my side, a little embarrassed. “It was no big deal.”
Peter tucked a curl behind my ear. “It meant a lot to him. A lot to me.”
“I’m trying.”
“You amaze me, Delanie Decker.”
“Because I bought your dad a cookie?”
His green eyes hit me full force while he shook his head. “No, because you keep trying even though some in my family have given you little incentive to do so.”
“You can just say your mom.” I smirked. “And I won’t be buying her cookies anytime soon.” Unless they were laced with laxatives.
“Someday she’ll come around and she’ll see what the rest of us already know about you.”
I laughed and felt his forehead. “I think the summer heat is getting to you.”
All that heat manifested in his eyes, causing a hot spell to wash over me. He wrapped his free arm around my waist to draw me closer. “You get to me.”
I leaned in and kissed him, soaking in his goodness. “How did a nice boy like you ever end up with a girl like me?”
He smiled against my lips, a masculine laugh playing between us. “I told you I was lucky.”
“I’m glad you still think so.”
“I know so. Mark my words, my mom will too someday.”
I kissed him once more before leaning away. “I want to believe you.”
“Trust me.”
“That’s what you said when we moved here.”
A sheepish grin inched up on his handsome face. “It’s a work in progress.”
“Did you mean retrogression?”
“I know it may seem like that, but I have a feeling tomorrow night will be a step forward.”
I didn’t disagree with him, though I felt it was a pipe dream. “I better go or I’m going to be late.”
Peter handed me the bag of toys. “I’ll wait up for you.”
“Then I may have to hurry home.”
He squeezed my hand. “Don’t rush on my account. You are always worth the wait.”
He was why I sold millions of romance books.
Chapter Five
Volunteering at the shelter had a way of putting life into perspective. The eyes of the women and children who lived there told such stories. Some eyes wore the mark of terror, some of utter exhaustion and last straws. Relief and hope filled those who had been there longest.
Tonight, I was relegated to help in the children’s playroom while many of the mothers took a class from an amazing woman who was a victim of domestic abuse herself. She was not the stereotypical victim. Domestic abuse knows no socioeconomic bounds, Jocelyn was living proof. She used her wealth now to provide training on how to dress for success and to provide each woman at the shelter with a new outfit.
The children’s playroom, though decorated in bright cheery colors, had a subdued feeling to it. Its little occupants were quieter than you expected children to be. Though their eyes showed more resilience than many of their mothers’, they were all cautious, which meant less playing with one another. One particularly sullen girl with corn-silk hair caught my attention while I gave one of the directors the bag of toys, so she could log the donation and make sure each toy met their standards before she put them out to be played with.
The pretty girl sat by herself coloring at a table, hoping to stay invisible. She was practically coiled up into a ball. I could only imagine the horrors she had seen to make her behave in such a way.
I approached her cautiously and sat across from her at the tiny wooden table. My five-foot-nine frame barely fit on the small chair. At first, I didn’t say anything to her. I grabbed the nearest coloring book filled with pictures of fairies and began to color my own picture. Every so often the girl would glance my way, but her eyes immediately dropped if she caught me looking at her.
“I’m Delanie,” I said nonchalantly after several minutes of our cat and mouse game.
She wasn’t biting.
“That’s a great picture. Blue dogs are my favorite.” I was rewarded with a hint of a smile.
She braved looking at what I was coloring. I noticed her eyes light up.
“Do you like fairies?”
She nodded.
I pushed my coloring book toward the middle of the table. “Do you want to color together?”
I got another nod.
The fragile beauty began coloring on the page next to mine. After a few minutes of silence and small glances, she finally said, quiet as a mouse, “I’m Amber.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Amber.”
Her cheeks pinked.
“How old are you?”
“Nine.”
Oh, nine. My heart skipped a beat. “Nine is my favorite.”
She looked up and this time met my eyes. “How old are you?”
I refrained from laughing. Children were so without guile. “Twenty-nine.”
“My mom is that old every year on her birthday.”
I couldn’t keep from laughing. I knew a lot of women who had been twenty-nine for a long time. This year I truly was twenty-nine. To be honest, turning thirty next year didn’t bother me. Maybe because Peter was already in his mid-thirties. Or perhaps because Cat and Ron never made a big deal about my birthdays. We never celebrated big milestones, at least not mine. Peter, though, had made each of my birthdays since we had been together a special occasion. This year he made it into a scavenger hunt that ended at a cozy out-of-the-way bed-and-breakfast at a Wisconsin nature preserve. Best birthday weekend I’d ever had. I would be using some of the inspiration from that weekend for the end of Black Confessions. It involved a lake, a rowboat, and hopefully no witnesses.
“Besides coloring, what else do you like to do?”
She thought for a moment like she didn’t want to say before she shrugged her thin shoulders, making my heart break. We both reached for a pink crayon at the same time. I noticed her delicate little hands bore bruises and her fingernails looked like she had chewed them with a vengeance. I hoped whoever was responsible was behind bars.
I made sure she took the crayon while I gazed into her beautiful, frightened blue eyes. I wanted to tell her she was safe here and that no one would ever hurt her again, but I couldn’t promise her that. I knew too often victims of abuse were in a terrible cycle of either returning to their abuser or ending up in another abusive relationship. This child’s mother probably came from an abusive home. Too few broke the cycle.
With all that I was, I wanted to take her in my arms and make her believe that she and her mother were worth so much more than the deal life had handed them. That she could break the cycle. If Peter were here, he would know the right words to say. I had seen him do it so many times with the children at the school in Phoenix. Many came from these types of situations. He would tell them God loved them and was watching over them. I wasn’t sure I believed that. What god would allow this to happen? I had asked Peter that many times. His response, “We live in a fallen world. Bad exists so we may know the good. Beautiful hearts like yours are made not despite the bad, but because of it. Think about that.” I had thought about it so often.
At times I could almost see his point, but when I looked at Amber, so timid and bruised physically and emotionally, all I could see was the injustice of life. And if I were God, I would fix it all. I would make every child safe and happy. All I could do now was offer her a smile and sit in the silence with her, hoping she knew that she was safe with me now.
I left the shelter thinking I had no right to complain about my life. Life hadn’t always treated me fairly, but I had never known the horrors in Amber’s young life. I would try to remember that when my mother-in-law came
to visit tomorrow night.
~*~
Peter was propped up in bed with the lights still on, book on his chest, sleeping. Poor guy. I felt bad I was returning so late; it looked like he had done his best to stay awake. After my time at the shelter, I stayed after my class and talked to Father Alan, who noticed I was unusually quiet. I couldn’t get Amber out of my mind. There were too many nine-year-olds who were in her situation or worse in the world. I had a hard time reconciling that and told Father Alan I might not return. That did not deter him. Instead, his kind brown eyes dared me. He said I was looking at it all wrong.
“Who are you to say that God isn’t involved in Amber’s life? For all you know God had a hand in bringing her to the shelter and making sure someone kind was there to color with her.” His eyes twinkled when he said it.
The man reminded me so much of Peter. It was exactly the kind of thing he would say.
I told Father Alan I might return. He grinned and challenged me, “Why don’t you start looking for God in all the good you see?”
I stared at my sleeping husband. He was good. And if God had a hand in giving him to me, I would convert to Peter’s faith in a second. But why would God give me so much and others so little? Thoughts to keep me up at night.
I quietly changed into one of Peter’s T-shirts before I slid into bed next to him. I removed the C.S. Lewis book from his bare chest and replaced it with my head.
“Hey, baby.” He woke and began stroking my hair. “What time is it?”
“Ten-thirty. Sorry I’m late.”
He kissed my head. “You’re doing good things. Don’t apologize.”
I felt a tad guilty he didn’t know everything I was doing, but I had good intentions for attending those RCIA classes. But I couldn’t get Peter’s hopes up. I needed to figure this one out on my own. If Peter was involved, it would cloud my judgment. Someday when I came to my conclusion I would tell him.
I snuggled closer. “How was your night?”
“Good. I went to the store and picked up the ice cream and cookies for tomorrow night.”
I stopped myself from saying something negative about his family’s impending visit. “Maybe one of us should learn how to cook.”
He laughed. “Hey. I can make oatmeal.”
“Hopefully, our children will . . .,” I choked on my words before I thought about what I was saying.
Peter’s arms tightened around me.
“I know we agreed not to think about it.”
“Baby, of course we’re going to think about it. I just don’t want it to overshadow what we already have together.”
“Life has been good to us.”
“Very good.”
I knew that tone. I looked up to see a pair of longing green eyes gazing at me.
“I love you,” he said barely above a whisper before he pulled me to him. His lips magnetically locked with mine. I melted into him, ready to be consumed by him. But far too quickly he leaned away. “I should probably mention Mimsy is coming tomorrow.”
Normally, I would have groaned or sighed, but in light of the night, I gave him a strained smile. “Just keep her away from any water sources.”
“Deal.” He leaned in, but I interrupted him.
“Any other surprises I should know about?”
He gave me a seductive grin. “I might have a few more.”
“You don’t say.”
“I don’t plan on saying anything.”
Those were my favorite kinds of surprises.
Now if only his mom would surprise me tomorrow night and do a good job pretending she could stand to be in my presence.
I wasn’t going to hold my breath. Maybe catch it a few times, though, while my husband showed me just how surprising he could be.
Chapter Six
I locked my office and doubled checked it before I headed downstairs to wait with Peter for our guests to arrive. It was nice to have a space for Autumn. In our apartment, we were constantly in fear of having someone drop by and accidentally see Autumn Moone evidence. There were a few times we had to hastily shove papers and laptops under our bed. Now it was always behind lock and key, disguised as a walk-in attic. The entrance was within one of the bedrooms. And by looking at our almost bare home, no one would think we kept anything in our attic. We also had a decoy desk and laptop in the “real” office across from our dining room downstairs.
It was going to be a short tour tonight. Mostly, look at this empty room and oh hey, here’s our couch and small TV. I wanted to get Peter a larger one because I knew he would enjoy it. He seemed to ogle the big screens his dad and James owned, but he wouldn’t allow the luxury. It was as if he had to prove to himself and God he didn’t need those things or even want them. He justified the house because it might have to protect me someday—I hoped with all that I had, that would never happen, but with technology, it was getting harder and harder to keep secrets. My publisher had to constantly be on guard. Communications to me went through a virtual private network my publisher set up especially for me. There were several tabloids willing to pay a lot of money to anyone who could prove who I truly was.
We laughed at how many people swore they knew who Autumn Moone really was. There were sightings of me all over Montana, where I was apparently a recluse living in a small mountain town. I supposed since my novels took place in Montana that was a good guess. Some had even surmised that Sam was Autumn Moone since her posts frequently ended up on my website. That had delighted Sam to no end. One of my favorite rumors, though, came from a man named Hunter Black from Rhode Island. He swore up and down he was me. His interviews were priceless. Peter and I laughed when he made up all sorts of nonsense about how he came up with the storyline. It was based on him and his high school sweetheart, Laine, of course. She died and came to him in a dream and told him to write their love story. Funny how he never knew the plot of the next books or even the titles. He would get flustered in interviews, but he would keep on telling lies.
My publishers loved it. It was marketing gold for them. It was so lucrative I had a clause in my contract saying I could only tell my spouse and authorized personnel who I was. They were also contractually bound to keep my identity a secret. It helped me sleep at night. At least when I could. My characters were Chatty Cathys and loved to talk to me and each other all night long sometimes. It was why we kept a bed in the spare bedroom leading into the walk-in attic. Many nights saw me getting out of bed and heading to my computer to relieve the noise banging around in my head. At times, I was so exhausted after my midnight writing sessions I would crash-land on the spare bed. Often, I would find Peter there sleeping soundly. I always loved to come out and see him there waiting for me to curl up beside him.
Beside him is where I planned to stay tonight. I wouldn’t say his mother scared me, but I didn’t underestimate her either. I didn’t expect her to come over here and be all sunshine and daisies. I did hope, though, that if I was near Peter, she would keep her comments to herself or at least to a low-grade insult. This way I would not have any reason to retaliate. She was lucky my period had already started, and PMS had subsided. That, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about that nine-year-old girl. There were bigger worries in my world than why my mother-in-law continued to hate me. All little girls should be safe and loved. I hoped . . . No. No. No. Not now. You did what you had to do, my heart whispered. I wasn’t sure if I would ever believe it. Or forgive myself.
“Delanie.” Peter shook me out of my thoughts in the nick of time.
“I’m sorry, did you say something?” I met him by the ecofriendly bamboo butcher block island in our large kitchen that would probably remain underutilized.
He reached for my hand, then with his free one he brushed my long hair back. His eyes gave me a good look over. “Are you okay? All the color drained from your face there.”
I felt that blood returning as heat rushed to my cheeks. My emotions were too transparent sometimes. “Just a lot on my mind.”
“Are your characters giving you trouble? Should I talk to them?” He could always get me to smile.
“They are mostly cooperating, except for the mother.”
He gave me a knowing grin. “I told Ma to be on her best behavior tonight.” Peter knew exactly whom I’d based Mrs. Black on.
“And I will do the same.”
He drew me closer and nuzzled my neck. “Only until they leave, right?”
I ran my fingers through his hair and reveled in his touch and words. “Are you suggesting I should be—”
A windchime sound filled the house. Whoever rang that doorbell was not getting any cookies or ice cream tonight.
Peter groaned and released me, but not before giving me a sly grin. “Don’t lose that thought; it was exactly what I was suggesting.”
Something to look forward to when this bad idea was over with. I smoothed out my long, patterned gypsy skirt, my favorite thing to wear, along with a tank top that my mother-in-law would consider too revealing.
“You look beautiful.” Peter took my hand and led us to the reclaimed wood double front doors in rustic gray. The thing I loved about this house was that we used repurposed or environmentally friendly materials wherever we could.
The sound of my bracelets jangling echoed throughout the mostly empty, largely open home with high wood beamed ceilings. Those were reclaimed too, as were the wood floors my feet padded against trying to slow down my husband. He laughed and tugged me along.
Before we opened the door, I could hear them all on the other side. You don’t know how much I appreciated that. Sam and Avery promised me they wouldn’t leave me alone with the woman who birthed some of my favorite people. I could hear Sarah’s shrill tones now wondering very loudly why our doors looked so old. “If you’re going to buy a house in this fancy neighborhood, you should have a nice door. And can you believe we had to use a code to get into this place? Who does she think she is, a Kennedy?”
Peter kissed me before some choice four-letter words came flying out of my mouth. I breathed him in. He was my sanity.
The Secretive Wife (More Than a Wife Series Book 2) Page 5
